


In Ithilen, A Garden

by just_ann_now



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bad Poetry, Domestic Fluff, Drabble, F/M, Ficlet, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, Gen, Ponyverse, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-09 06:48:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 8,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_ann_now/pseuds/just_ann_now
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles and ficlets pertaining to Faramir, Éowyn, the settlement of Émyn Arnen, and the reconstruction of Ithilien in the years following the Ring War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Dream of Golden Summer

**A Dream of Golden Summer**

 

Surely he had seen fair-haired women before, but none like her. Her hair shimmers like a dream of summer, a vision long-forgotten in this barren spring.

A flash of memory shines beacon-bright: he is hiding his eyes in a golden curtain of silken hair, scented with lemon and rosemary. “Where is my darling boy? Where is my Faramir, my jewel?” The game delights all three. His mother’s voice, like the music of flowing water, and his father’s soft laughter ring together in that faraway land.

“What do you wish, my lady?” He wishes he could bury himself in her hair.


	2. Catmint

**Catmint**

“What is wrong with that cat?” Eowyn asked. 

The cat was rolling and reveling enraptured all over a plant, a low plant with fuzzy grey-green leaves and dull purple blossoms; she had nearly crushed it to the ground. Eowyn had never seen such a sight. Cats at Edoras were hard working, conscientious, devoted to the art and craft of mousing. Minas Tirith cats always seemed to be lazing in the sun, or wrapping themselves around someone’s ankles. She had never seen any of these cats working; of course, she had not seen any signs of mice, either. Perhaps the cats took it in shifts, like the Citadel Guard. 

“That cat? Oh, there’s nothing wrong with her, milady, just loves that catmint. Lady Finduilas had it brought from her garden at home, Dol Amroth. The plant serves no purpose at all, other than being pretty and pleasing the cats; but we’ve found our patients always seem to get a smile from watching their antics.” 

Eowyn could not help but agree. She had come to the garden sad and drained by the burden of being alive; but watching the cat in its unconcerned delight had brought a smile to her lips. Cats live in the _now_ ; no cat worries about whether there will be mice tomorrow. A spot of sunshine, a patch of catmint to delight the senses, the certainty that somewhere there is a bowl of milk waiting. _Perhaps today, I should be like a cat_ , Eowyn thought. Lifting her face to the sun, she closed her eyes, concentrating on the warmth, the distant singing of the birds, the soft sound of footsteps nearby.

“Might I join you, my lady?” a gentle voice asked.

  
[_Nepeta mussini_ (Catmint)](http://www.bluestoneperennials.com/b/bp/NEMUS.html)   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday ficlet for Silverwerecat.


	3. Children of a New Age

**Children of a New Age**

I did not ever know your face  
at peace; no laughter   
or innocent joy. A warrior woman  
you were, fierce in your anger and despair. Still  
I saw an abandoned child weeping  
at the window that did not look east.

We were both seared by   
the same deathly grip, and yet  
the same healing hands drew us back  
from that far, fateful edge.

Those consecrated hands  
sparked our souls, and kindled within   
our hope, and our desire: to live, free from sorrow and fear.  
We turned our faces to the light. Newborn, blessed, we are  
children of a new age.


	4. Bittersweet

**Bittersweet**

_Brides should be happy, not mournful,_ Eowyn thinks.

She mourns the loss of Rohan, her home: a shimmering sea of grass, ten thousand shades of green and gold. Soaring snow-capped peaks sun-kissed at dawn, rose-brushed at sunset. Pounding hoofbeats, the surging pulse of the earth itself. Home.

Not only the land: the bones of her ancestors anchor her to where simbelmynë marks the trails of strength and sacrifice. Her people.

But it is ever the fate of brides to leave home, or how will new homes be made? She turns, smiling, and sets her course towards a new, green land.


	5. Benison

**Benison**

“’Twas my lady’s sewing basket, mam.” The housekeeper, normally quite forthright, offered the gift almost shyly. “I was just a housemaid, then, and bid to clear out her things from the study. There was no lady of her family to give it to, and it felt wrong to keep it for myself, though the Chamberlain said I could, so I just tucked it away in a storeroom. I never imagined…” She paused to consider her words carefully. “The way Lord Denethor loved her so, and the boys being so young, the idea of another Lady here just seemed so far away. When I didn’t see as that you’d brought your own sewing kit, I thought, perhaps, you might want it…” 

Eowyn accepted the gift thankfully. She had not thought to bring her own workbasket; in truth, needlework had been the farthest thing from her mind for many months. But now, with peace, and some degree of leisure, and a husband (and hopefully, soon, a child), the possibility of quiet evenings by the fire and stitchery on her lap held an almost magical appeal. 

Dismissing the housekeeper with a smile, Eowyn settled herself on the windowseat and examined the basket. It was woven of sea-grass, green and gold fronds now faded, but still strong and supple. As she opened it, breathing in the faint scents of lavender and rose, Eowyn paused for a moment to consider: both she and Faramir had been very young when they lost their mothers. What did they know of these women, really, other than family tales and traditions and second-hand memories? 

The treasures inside the basket provided a glimpse of she who seemed, though many years gone, to be lingering just beyond reach. A soft leather needle-case held gold and silver needles and cunningly crafted sewing scissors, impeccably sharp and purposeful as any blade. A small ivory-inlaid box held a treasure trove: silken floss, gleaming like sunlight on water; dozens of skeins of linen floss in unimagined colors; a collection of intricately carved ivory thimbles. At the very bottom of the basket lay a bundle of soft fabric. When Eowyn lifted it out to examine the delicate embroidery, a small book fell onto her lap. 

It appeared at first to be a sketchbook, but flipping through the pages, Eowyn found much more than drawings; it was a daybook, providing an unexpected glimpse into another woman’s life. In small neat handwriting she found humorous songs and riddles to entertain children; lists of medicinal herbs and their uses (“Ioreth says: fennel-seed tea for indigestion”); gardening notes (“Flowers to attract hummingbirds”); recipes for apricot brandy and lavender-rose potpourri and spiced almonds. 

There was also poetry, written in a powerful masculine hand, of such passion that Eowyn blushed as she read. Those pages were marked with ribbons, and in one spot a dried gillyflower, its once-vivid scarlet color now faded, softened by the years. 

Loveliest of all were the drawings: swans in flight, a spray of cherry blossoms just beginning to bloom, a smiling boy playing with a small happy dog. A sleeping infant, dark silken hair curled softly against his cheek, his lovely mouth curving just so – Eowyn too had seen that hair, that cheek, that beloved mouth curved in peaceful dreams.

Another woman had lived and loved and built a home here, and across the years it seemed as though Eowyn felt the brush of Finduilas’s lips on her forehead: a caress, a blessing.


	6. Tapestry

**Tapestry**

Throughout that rainy winter Faramir watched, fascinated, as Eowyn wielded needle and thread as skillfully as ever she had handled her sword. 

“I did not spend all my time in the practice-yards,” she laughed. “Come evening, my nurse would sit on me to make me take up my needlecraft. I fought long, but finally surrendered, and now am glad of the skill.” She held up her handiwork, a small jacket as exquisite and intricate as a spider’s web. 

_A tapestry,_ Faramir thought. _Each day, some new knowledge; a new thread added. We weave our lives together, a work in progress._


	7. A Dream of Golden Summer

**Gardener's Bounty**

Eowyn had not thought to plan a garden solely for beauty, so early one morning Faramir took her by the hand, and they went down narrow, winding streets, thorough courtyards enclosed by intricate iron gates or low stone walls, to visit some old friends.

Each one they visited greeted them smiling, as gardeners always do, stopping to wipe muddy hands on skirts or trews before offering shy congratulations.They did not call him 'my lord', for it is the sun and rain who rule and for all his fine titles, in the garden he was a mendicant, the same as they.

“Here, taste this apricot, you’ll find none finer at the king’s table!”

“Let me give you some of this columbine, I’ve too much as you can see, it’s crowding out my gillyflowers…”

“Take some of this cordial, I remember how you always liked the raspberry! I’ve a few bottles left. And send someone down for some cuttings of the raspberry plants, they should do well in Ithilien...”

Laughing, arms loaded with baskets of seedlings, and bulbs, and fruit, and flowers– for who can resist such gifts? - they bid farewell and thanks for gardener’s bounty, the very beginning of the fabulous gardens of Emyn Arnen, famed throughout all Middle-Earth for centuries to come.


	8. The Far Corner of the Garden

**The Far Corner of the Garden**

“…as a memorial to those who had fallen. I always liked that idea…” Faramir murmured drowsily. Soon Eowyn heard his soft whuffling snores and shifted herself slightly, easing her arm from under his bulky shoulder. She always took a bit longer to fall asleep, so she used that time to plan, to dream.

The kitchen garden had gone in first, of course. Peppers and onions, some of those strange fruits Mag called love apples for summer; beans and cabbages, carrots and kale for the hearty, warming stews of winter. Then the healing garden: mint and fennel, lavender, chamomile and calendula. The orchards were well under way now; some of the community’s small children had been engaged to shoo the deer away from the tender young branches. All the essentials seemed to be under control, or as much control as such things could be; now she had some time to devote to the less-essential items.

There was a spot in the far corner, cobbled with large heavy boulders, unsuited for any more practical purpose. Scarlet anemones should do well there, and _simbelmyne_ : those delicate white blossoms need not only cover the dead. There would be room for a wooden bench, and a settle to rest weary feet. It was a sunny spot; perhaps some almond trees, too – she remembered Théodred speaking wistfully of an almond grove. She smiled at the memory as she drifted peacefully towards sleep


	9. The Treasure Hunter

**The Treasure Hunter**

_Let us dwell in fair Ithilien and there make a garden_ , he had said, and she, to his delight, agreed. Amidst his travels he collected seeds and saplings, roots and cuttings, sketching them first in his worn leather journal, carefully noting sun or shade, rocky hillside or misty bog, color and scent and which birds gathered near. 

Tucking pouches of seed in the crannies of his saddlebags, swaddling delicate bulbs in gauze and nestling them inside his shirt, close to his heart, he bore these treasures home to lay at his Lady's feet: sunflowers, moonflowers, cloth-of-gold, baby's breath.


	10. The Scents of the Place

**The Scents of the Place**

 

At work in her garden, fingers embedded in warm earth. Eowyn thinks, oddly, about smells.

Edoras: Grassland, horse, peatsmoke. She had been accustomed to those smells; but now, she wrinkles her nose a bit at the memory, laughing at herself.

Ithilien: new-cut hay, birch trees in bud, the lavender leaves she crushes between her fingers. Her husband: sweat, lemony soap; the scent of their lovemaking lingering on his skin. She smiles.

Footsteps, and here is Faramir, stretching out on the grass next to her. Reaching over, he nuzzles the back of her neck, murmuring, _I love the way you smell._


	11. Loving Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompts: jewelry, porcelain, embroidery

**Loving Hands**

What Faramir remembers most about his mother are her hands: soft and cool, with exquisite jewelry. He recalls a peculiar translucence, like porcelain, and her veins like delicate embroidery under the skin. 

Eowyn’s fingers are short and calloused, with broken nails. Rough from riding and grafting fruit trees and helping to coax reluctant foals and lambs from their mother’s wombs. 

At night, Eowyn rubs her hands with a salve of beeswax and lavender and honey, laughing that she had to fight the bees for every bit. Faramir kisses each finger, each palm, breathing deeply the scent of honey and flowers.


	12. Bliss

**Bliss**

I am tired. My back aches, my feet are swollen, and I neither sit not lie comfortably. Winter in Ithilien means the constant patter of raindrops streaming off green leaves. When shall we see the sun again? Will this child _ever_ be born?

Faramir comes, bearing a steaming cup. Warmth, and comfort, and the scent of … _flowers_?

“Jasmine tea. I remembered it from Dol Amroth, so I asked my uncle to send some, to cheer you in these grey days.”

Dear, sweet man. The child shifts a bit, and I can breathe, inhaling deeply the essence of spring.


	13. Heirlooms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Related stories: ["First Horse"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/725042), ["Mine"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/725165) by edoraslass.

**Heirlooms**

Lothíriel smoothed the soft fabric of the coverlet over her sleeping son; admiring once again the perfection of his eyelashes, feathery as a sandpiper’s wing; his silken skin; his long lovely fingers, resting on…something; a small stuffed toy she had not seen before. She carefully slipped it free to examine it more closely.

It was a pony, crafted of soft brown boiled wool, its mane and tale of flaxen rope. Obviously old and well-loved; it was scented, freshly and surprisingly, of lavender. Had one of the nurserymaids or serving-women left it there as a gift?

Bemused by her discovery, she did not notice Éomer’s arrival by her side. Smiling, he stretched out a finger to gently stroke the pony’s mane. 

“His name is Áccorn. He belonged to our cousin Théodred when he was a boy, made for him by our grandmother Morwen. Théo’s nurse tucked Áccorn away for Théo’s own children, but he gave it instead to Éowyn, to comfort her when we first arrived here. We soon realized how much she envied me my wooden sword, but still, she slept each night for years with Áccorn by her side.” His voice was soft with affection at the memory. 

“This morning Winfrith brought him to me. She said that Éowyn had asked her to look for him, to see if he might not be too old and worn to be passed on. Winfrith, bless her, cleaned him and changed his stuffing, adding a bit of dried lavender to freshen him. A gift for Elfwinë, she said, from Théodred.”

“A family heirloom,” Lothíriel murmured, as he drew her close. “Not so stiff and staid as a dagger or a tapestry, but warm and alive, to a child; perfect for a young horse-lord.”

~*~

Éowyn tucked the quilt around her sleeping son, admiring once again his skin, his eyelashes, the sweet curve of his mouth; the tiny perfect fingers clutching… a small stuffed toy, something she had not ever seen in the cradle before.

 _It cannot be,_ she thought, so stunned for a moment that she did not hear Faramir’s quiet footsteps as he joined her.

“It was Boromir’s pony, sent to him from Rohan. Our Nanny always said that Queen Morwen had made it with her own hands, a gift for a child to play with and love.”

“When our mother passed away I slept the first few weeks with Boromir, for comfort. _He_ didn’t sleep with the pony any more, of course, but he let me hold it; and then when I went back to my own bed, he said I could take it. It still smelled of him, a little. It always made me feel safe.”

“Even after we were older, Nanny kept all our things in good repair. I found it in a chest, wrapped in linen, along with some old puzzles and books. I don’t know why….” His voice trailed off, as if he suddenly realized why Nanny had packed everything away so carefully. “I thought I would like Elboron to have something of Boromir’s, even when he is small, to let him know how his uncle would have loved him.”

Éowyn carefully slipped the pony back under Elboron’s hand; he stirred and smiled in his sleep. When she turned to Faramir, her eyes were shining. “I had a pony, a match to this one,” Éowyn whispered. “It was my cousin’s. He gave it to me when _I_ needed comfort. I never imagined there could be two of them, and that I would find one here. It is fitting, though, that our son should have it, a family heirloom, for our Elboron is a horse-lord as well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday ficlet for thrihyrne. The character of Winfrith appeared in Alawa’s lovely tale, ["Keepers of the Hearth"](http://www.henneth-annun.net/stories/chapter.cfm?STID=2980), and is used with her gracious permission.


	14. Memory

**Memory**

 

Faramir found the book in a dusty cupboard in the old nursery: leather binding still supple; jewel-like paintings as wondrous and terrifying as he remembered from his childhood. 

Playing each part: hero, maiden, villain, beast, Boromir would read and reenact fabulous tales of mythical creatures and mighty warriors. Wide-eyed, awestruck, Faramir provided the perfect audience as the candlelight flickered and the pine logs crackled and hissed through those long, winter evenings.

Brotherly love, hero worship, treasured memory. Faramir smiled as he tucked the tattered volume into his pocket. A family tradition would be renewed, throughout these wintry nights, in Ithilien.


	15. The Universal Language

**The Universal Language**

_It's such a silly thing to be homesick over_ , Éowyn told herself. 

Hay-cutting was hay-cutting, after all, whether in Rohan or Ithilien. For menfolk, scything and stacking and sweating in the sun; for women, hauling and bending and tending, food or children or those unlucky victims of over-enthusiasm or carelessness. 

Perhaps it was the voices of her own people she missed, the rise and fall of her own language. But when a freckle-faced, dark-haired boy, dumbstruck with shyness, smiled up at her over a cup of cool water, she thought, _ofttimes we need no language._


	16. Precious

**Precious**

A bitter wind howled around the eaves, pellets of sleet pounded upon the rooftop, but the kitchen at Emyn Arnen was snug and warm. 

The Prince and Princess were curled together by the fire, each holding a newborn lamb. Patiently they dipped bits of cloth into warm milk, squeezing it into the lambs' mouths, enticing them to suckle. Their flock was small; every lamb was precious.

Éowyn smiled. "I've done this many times as a girl, but never dreamed of doing it with my husband."

Faramir laughed softly. "And I never dared to dream of such a wife as you."


	17. Dandelion Wine

**Dandelion Wine**

Faramir had thought it a ploy to keep children out from underfoot when Eowyn set them to gathering dandelion blossoms in the noonday sun. Yet the men, clearing fields for early sowing, mending fences, repairing tools and tack in the courtyard, smiled, their hearts lightened at the sound of youthful voices raised in laughter and song. 

When the first icy winds howled ‘round the rafters, the sun but a memory and a hope, the community gathered within itself. Bottles were uncorked, goblets passed around, and the good folk of Emyn Arnen greeted the solstice with a taste of golden springtime.


	18. Harvest Home

**Harvest Home**

The moon hung low and red. The evening was unseasonably warm, rich with the scent of apples and dry leaves, so the dancing was in the courtyard rather than the barn. The queen was being twirled around by the blacksmith, while the king partnered young Bergil's great-grandmother. And who ever knew that Faramir could fiddle with such skill?

In the moonlight, all the faces seemed young and full of joy. _And so we are_ , Éowyn thought, pausing to catch her breath, for it was Harvest Home, the granaries were full, and the world was new and full of promise.


	19. The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From the Tree

**The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From the Tree**

_Scritch-scritch_ went Faramir's pen. _Scritch-scritch._ Every now and again he would pause, gaze into the fire, stroke his chin, and begin again. 

_Scritch-scritch_ went Elboron's pen. _Scritch-scritch_. The child was stretched out on his belly in front of the fireplace. Every now and again he would lift his head to see what his father was doing, stroke his chin, and begin again. 

_Click-clack_ went Éowyn's needles. _Click-clack._ In the quiet she studied the faces of those she loved, seeing at once the boy that Faramir had been, and the man that Elboron would become.


	20. Summer's End

**Summer's End**

 

“ _Ada_ ,wake up, please!” The urgency in Elboron’s voice would have awakened Faramir immediately, even if years of training and service had not.

“What is it?”

His son’s warm breath tickled his ear. “ _Ada,_ I believe a wizard has come in the night, and stolen all our fields.”

Well, this was interesting. “Why do you think so?”

In response, Elboron tugged at his father’s hand. Slipping out of bed, padding barefoot down the flagstone hallway, Faramir could not help but feel a surge of pride as the four-year-old led the way to the kitchen. Elboron was by nature an imaginative child, nurtured from birth with the legends and songs of both Rohan and Gondor, but to be so utterly certain of what he had seen showed both insight and determination beyond his years.

The back door stood slightly ajar, and Elboron dashed ahead to fling it open. “Look! Everything’s gone!”

Faramir caught his breath. Certainly, the dense morning mist gave the appearance of cold nothingness, yet the sunrise was even now beginning to tint the sky pale pink and gold. The morning air was rich with the fragrance of damp pinewoods and the barest hint of autumn yet to come.

Joyously he swept his son up into his arms. “Listen!” The wrentit was just beginning its wake-up song; as other birds joined in the chorus Elboron laughed aloud.

“I think it was a good wizard, Ada, for an evil one would have stolen the songs from the birds, wouldn’t he?”

“I don’t believe an evil wizard would have wanted to leave such cheerfulness behind. But why do you think a good wizard would have hidden our fields?”

The child thought for a moment. “I think he wrapped everything in cloud to remind us that summer is ending, and then we will have harvest time, and the autumn rains, and then winter! The cloud is like a blanket, to remind us to get our warm blankets ready, for winter will be here soon.”

 _A precious child, a born Steward,_ Faramir thought to himself. “And so it will, but we will spend what is left of our summer getting ready. The chill wind of winter will not take Ithilien unawares, and during the long nights the promise of spring will warm our hearts.”


	21. Reclaimed

**Reclaimed**

Trusted men, rangers and foresters not prone to exaggeration, reported what they had seen. The prince sent word to the king; they met near what once been the Black Gate and rode on, amazed.

Lupine and fireweed smoothed the jagged mountainside, blanketing the plain in color. Stands of willow and alder marked new watercourses where molten rock had once flowed. A kestrel wheeling overhead screeched and dived, doom to a hapless coney; while a doe and fawn peered wide-eyed from an elderberry thicket.

_No longer Gorgoroth, land of dread,_ murmured the King. This vale will be renamed: Reclamation. Renewal. Resurrection.


	22. Fish Story

**Fish Story**

“Ada,” Elboron mumbled, “one of the rangers told me that you once caught six fish by singing to them.”

Faramir laughed, ruffling his son’s soft curls. How [that tale](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1157896) had grown in the telling!! He had sought to keep it quiet, but his sudden appearance with an armful of wriggling trout made for questions. Here on the banks of the Anduin, fishing poles propped haphazardly as father and son lay curled together, Elboron seemed more ready for a naptime story than a fishing lesson.

“I did not sing to them. How could a fish hear singing over the rushing of the stream? How could a fish hear at all? And why would a fish be attracted to a human song? Would not the songs of its own kind fascinate it more?”

Elboron chuckled drowsily, the deep belly-chuckle of a contented four-year-old. “Fish don’t sing, Ada!”

“How do you know, little one? Just because you have never heard them?”

“I think if they sang, bubbles would come out of their mouths, and then fishermen would see them. They would be safer not to sing,” he murmured.

‘Perhaps they dance, instead. Does that make more sense, do you think?”

There was no reply, just gentle puffy snores. Faramir smiled, letting his eyes drift shut. Soon, like Elboron, he was dreaming of swishing fins and tails, swaying to underwater music.


	23. Evaluating the Success of a Wetlands Restoration Project

**Evaluating the Success of a Wetlands Restoration Project**

"They were called the Dead Marshes", his father is saying, "because there was a great battle here, elves and orcs and men. A hateful place, reeking of death, even after all these -"

But Elboron is not listening. He is watching a flock of swallows, wheeling and dipping, gleaming indigo and gold. The mist over the marsh shimmers in the sun, and the air is heavy with the scent of watermint. 

Later, he and his father dangle their feet in the cool water, minnows nibbling at their toes. Clumps of purple iris bloom all around, leaves tall and straight as swords.


	24. Family Traditions

**Family Traditions**

 

By the time the household was roused by his littlest sister’s cries of “Ada’s baking! Ada’s baking!” Faramir and Elboron had been at work for quite some time.

Two kinds of ginger: ground for the filling, candied for the glaze. He watched his father’s strong, callused hands kneading the dough, until… “Smooth as a baby’s bottom!” they sang out in unison, laughing, as always. 

Then came the moment when Elboron asked his question, as he did each year,because now it too was part of the tradition. “What was my uncle Boromir like?” And his father began to tell him.


	25. Night Songs

**Night Songs**

When Elboron heard the whippoorwill call, he would quietly slip outside. 

The part of him that was obedient understood his father’s concern, the nagging worry that Ithilien might not yet be completely safe, even here at Emyn Arnen. But it was neither recklessness nor rebellion that drew him each evening to his vigil at the edge of jessamine thicket. 

Amid the quiet rustlings of the night-creatures, the scent of warm damp earth, he could hear the murmuring of ancient bards and kings, mournful tales of valor and grief; but sometimes he heard the nightingale: the clear, piping note of rebirth. 


	26. Inspired

**Inspired**

Eowyn watches as he sleeps, his breathing slow and even, his lips curved. Moonlight gleams on his hair, silver strands now glistening among the raven. Where have the years gone? 

He has given her so much; taught her so much, a world of poetry and beauty and delight beyond imagining. She smiles to think of all those who have been inspired by seeing their loved ones thus, kissed by moon and stars; and reaches for the pen to try her hand at a new art.

I watch while you sleep  
Pale moonlight brushing your skin  
In your dream, you smile. 


	27. Antikythera

**Antikythera**

 

The idea was born one autumn night on a cliff high above Ithilien, friends sharing warm spiced wine as stars wheeled overhead. Faramir and Legolas devised the mathematics,while Gimli spent years tinkering with the design. When he was finally satisfied, his kin forged the cogs and wheels to a precision approaching perfection.

The finished device, austere and elegant, was gifted to the peoples of Middle-earth, accepted on their behalf by the King Elessar. His son Eldarion was particularly fascinated. In his time he set it high in Ecthelion’s tower, where he spent endless hours, asking questions of the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Tinker" challenge at Tolkien_weekly. My search for inspiration led me [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antikythera_mechanism).


	28. Leaving Home

**Leaving Home**

I could not believe what I heard my _Modor_ say. I could feel my mouth gaping open, like a fish; peeking quickly at my Ada, I saw that his mouth looked the very same.

Master Thain Peregrin Took was whooping - “Yes, it will be such fun!” - and Master Meriadoc Holdwine was grinning, and Prince Legolas Greenleaf was laughing and shaking his head. Finally, I heard my Ada say, “Éowyn, dear heart, could you repeat that, please?”

“I said,” Modor repeated, in her pretending-to-be-annoyed-but-not-really voice, “that I think Elboron is old enough to ride along to Edoras with Merry and Pippin when they leave. It's not all that far; the party will be large enough for everyone to keep an eye out for him; and he's certainly skilled enough at riding Thunor. He can stay the summer, and return with Éomer and Lothíriel when they come to visit this autumn...”

I didn't even bother to listen to the rest. Ride with the holbytla for two whole weeks , and then spend the whole summer in Rohan? It was just too wonderfully wonderful. And to think that Master Thain Peregrin Took had brought it up first!

I had been very rude to him the afternoon before. They had all come riding in together, Master Thain Peregrin Took and Master Meriadoc Holdwine and Prince Legolas Greenleaf; all laughing in the morning sunshine, and got to go right into my Ada's office and disturb him at his work. _I_ never get to do that, well, hardly ever – it is one of Modor's firmest rules. But when I do do it, Ada always swoops me up, laughing, and tells me stories about whatever is sitting on his desk. “Look at this stone,” he'd say. “It was born in fire under the ground. See how it shines? That is from being melted, and cooled, over and over, until it finally escaped outside, in a river of molten rock.”

Then he would show me Mordor and Mount Doom the map, and tell me about how the land that was once covered with ash and dust is just now beginning to bloom again, the dust turning into dirt from the soft rain, and the west wind blowing gently and the birds bringing seeds in their bellies. And how soon there would be wild roses and raspberries and fireweed, and one day there will be farms and forests and great pastures for sheep and horses. And then Modor would come in, and scold me, and Ada would say, “How is he to learn these things, Éowyn, if not from me?” And she would wag her finger at him, and they would both laugh. So most of the time I tried to remember not to disturb him at his work.

But then yesterday his friends came, right in the mid-morning, his busiest time, or so Modor always says, and told him that it was much too fine a day to spend inside, and that they should all go hiking together up to Tinker's Cliffs, and how often did they ever have a chance like this? And Ada and Modor laughed, and said what a wonderful idea that was, and that they would leave right away. Modor called for food and skins of water and ale and Ada was searching around for his boots and his special hiking stave. Even the dogs were all frisking and yelping about, wondering which of them would get to go along.

I ran and got my boots and pack and hiking stave, and waited for them in the courtyard, but when my Nurse saw me she said, Oh, little lord, I do not think they are meaning to take you, too. Then I stomped my foot and cried, because Ada had said he would take me up to Tinker's Cliffs one day, and why couldn't I go? Nurse said that I was not big enough yet, and that I was only six years old and my legs were too short to walk all that way up to the cliffs and back. I became very angry and said that was not fair, for wasn't I just as tall as Master Thain Peregrin Took? My mother and father turned away – I think they were laughing – but Master Thain Peregrin Took sat down by the fountain and set me on his knee. Then he rolled up his trews and said, “Look at my calves, they are hard as rocks,” but I was so surprised that he actually did have hair on his feet, thick and curly like the hair on his head, that I forgot to cry. Sometimes when you hear things, you don't think about whether they are true or not, and then you actually see them, and you have to believe that they are.

So after a bit Modor and Cook came out with packs all full of picnic food, and flasks of water and ale, and off they went. I sat outside on the porch waiting for them to come back, because I wanted to hear all of their adventures, and see if Master Thain Peregrin's feet would get all cut and sore like mine did when I ran barefoot for too long, or if they were tough like leather boots, but I waited and waited and then it was evening and Modor came out and we sat and watched the fireflies together.

“Do you think they are all right, Modor?” I asked. “They were not eaten by a bear, or perhaps stolen by Beornings, and made to tend their beehives and care for their animals?” My Ada had just begun to tell me tales of the Beorings, shapeshifters from the North, but I wasn't exactly sure how far north of Tinker's Cliffs they lived, or how far south they might wander.

“Have you forgotten that your father was Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien? No one knows this land as he does. Perhaps Merry and Pippin were wearied from their visit to the White City, and wanted to sleep again under the stars.”

Well, the White City wearied me, too, with all the people, and the stiff clothing we had to wear there, and few trees or gardens anywhere. But just then the nightingale began to sing in the jessamine bush, the sign that it was time for me to go to bed. Modor came along and tucked me in, singing me a goodn- night song like Ada always did. After she blew out the lamp I lay wondering about the road to Tinker's Cliffs, and if there were still tinkers there, and how did they get their wagons up and down the cliffs, and where did they get their goods to sell if they lived way up there? And then, I think I fell asleep, because I never did figure it out.

But the next afternoon they were back again, all sunburnt and laughing. Master Meriadoc Holdwine had stepped on a thorn and gotten it stuck into his foot, whining about it the whole way back, or so Master Thain Peregrin Took said. Modor had to leave the cooking, great slabs of smoke-pork ribs roasted in a pit, to help take care of him. First she set him in a chair in the sunniest part of the courtyard, and then heated one of her fine steel sewing needles in a fire. Master Thain Peregrin Took was ready to hold him down.

“What is that in her hand?” Master Meriadoc Holdwine howled.“Look at it; it's as big as her sword.”

“Don't be such a crybaby, Merry, honestly,” Master Thain Peregrin Took said. I had never heard grownups speak to each other so; they sounded like our stable boys. Perhaps Master Thain Peregrin Took and Master Meriadoc Holdwine were not really grownups after all? They never seemed to really act like other grownups.

“Stop jiggling your foot about, Merry, or I shall never find the thorn,” Modor said. “And besides, the bottoms of your feet are so thick, it's like looking for a stone in horse's hoof. I may need a sword, rather than-”

“Ow!” Master Meriadoc Holdwine jerked and jumped, both at the same time, punching Master Thain Peregrin Took in the nose, knocking him over backwards. My Modor held up the needle triumphantly, a briar-thorn stuck to the end of it, while my father and Prince Legolas Greenleaf roared with laughter. The kitchen-maids, yard hands, and everyone else in the courtyard shouted and clapped. After dusting himself off, Master Meriadoc Holdwine bowed as though it had all been a mummer's play performed to entertain us.

It was after the meal (“That was quite a fine afternoon tea, Éowyn,” Master Meriadoc Holdwine said, belching a little, “and I'm looking forward to dinner, too”; Modor threw an apple core at him but he ducked, just in time, it struck Prince Legolas Greenleaf instead, but he was talking to my Ada and didn't notice. ) that Modor surprised us all with what she said. She had been talking and laughing at her end of the table with Master Thain Peregrin Took and Master Meriadoc Holdwine; I was not sure where I was supposed to sit with so many guests present so I just sat in the middle, trying to hear what was being said on either side.

My Ada and Prince Legolas Greenleaf were talking about trees, and whether it would be better to plant fast-growing ones, even if they weakened as they grew older, or to plant slow-growing ones, and wait and watch patiently. I said, can't you just mix them up together, then you would have some now and then some later. They both looked at me. Then Prince Legolas Greenleaf said that was the most astute, I think he said, thing he had ever heard from a young man of only six years, and that I had the makings already of being a first-rate forester and steward. Ada looked at me all proud and happy and I felt proud, too, because there's nothing in the world I want to be more than a first-rate forester and steward, like him or maybe an Ithilien Ranger like he used to be; or Captain-General of the White Tower, like my uncle Boromir was. Or all three.

~*~  
It was the night before we were going to leave. I had gone through my pack over and over, putting in things and taking them out again. Pippin (“You don't have to keep calling me 'Master Thain Peregrin Took,' over and over,” he said, “I have to keep looking over my shoulder to see who you're talking to. Just call me Pippin, or Pip, like everyone else.”) had dumped out his pack onto the floor, to show me what sorts of things he carried, but then Merry came along and said I wouldn't need the pipe or the sack of pipeweed or the flask of brandy. Pippin said in that case why would I need a pack at all? Then Ada came and said I needed to carry dry socks and an extra set of smallclothes, and perhaps a leather pouch for treasures I found along the way. And then he gave me one that had been his when he was very small, a gift from his Nanny, he said. It had a tooled design of a rabbit on it, because his nickname when he was small was “Rabbit”, and his brother, my uncle Boromir the Bold, Captain-General of the White Tower, was called “Duckling.” I had never thought of my father as being six years old , like me, with a nanny and a big brother.

My nurse (“We call her Nurse, instead of Nanny, because there's only one Nanny,” my Ada said) was not coming with me to Edoras. She didn't like to ride, anyway – how can someone not like to ride? - and my mother said she would need her over the summer.

“After two weeks with you ruffians,” she said, Merry and Pippin hooting with laughter, “there won't be a nurse in all the West who'll want to have charge of him. I'll send a note to Blidhe, she'll find someone there to tend to his grimy socks, and check that there isn't anything living in his hair. If he's to be a ranger, he's not too young to learn to fend for himself.”

I wasn't really sure what she meant by that – would I not sit at table in the Golden Hall? Would I have to hunt and cook my own food all summer? - but then Merry grinned at me, and Pippin winked, so I supposed I could just follow them around and try to blend in.

I had already said most all my goodbyes, to Nurse and Cook and the kitchen maids and stableboys, to the blacksmith and his helpers and his wife and the shepherds and farmers. My father's friend Gaersum had brought me a small leather-bound journal and a set of colored pencils as a going-away gift. “Draw what you see,” he said, which was a lot of talking for him, because he usually didn't speak much at all. His wife Fridhu, on the other hand, talked quite a bit, from the moment she arrived in the morning to help my mother in the herb garden, though nuncheon, and into the afternoon. She and my mother would sit and knit or sew and sometimes sing, songs that made the people around us who knew Rohirric howl with laughter, while the people who didn't looked worried. When I asked Modor why the songs were so funny, she told me to ask Uncle King Éomer about them. So many things to remember! And then suddenly there was one more thing.

“Modor,” I whispered. She lay on her back, with great goose-feather pillows behind her. Her belly, which did not seem so big during the daytime, looked like a small mountain under the covers. She was snoring, just a bit.

“What is it, Elboron?” my Ada whispered. I had not meant to disturb him; in fact, I hoped that he would sleep very late in the morning so I would not have to say goodbye to him again. My heart hurt me inside every time I thought about not seeing him for so long. But to have such an adventure! I hope he did not mind too much that I was leaving. At least he would have peace and quiet to do his work.

“I've forgotten to pack any Court clothes, Ada! The ones I have here are too small, Nurse said, and all my new ones are at Minas Tirith! What am I to wear to be presented to Uncle King Éomer and Aunt Queen Lothíriel? I'll just have traveling clothes, and that one set of extra smallclothes in my pack. Should I bring two sets, do you think?”

My Ada choked a little bit, and then Modor opened her eyes very wide, like she had been awake the whole time. “You won't need to bring any Court clothes to Edoras; if you need any, they can be made for you there. Rohan green, be sure to tell them, with gold embroidery, because you too are a prince of Rohan. And don't you let them forget it.”

She pulled back the blankets, and I hopped in between them, just like I used to when I was very small. Then she took my hand, and put it on her belly, and I could feel something moving there, like the fluttering of a little bird. “You'll be a big brother when you come back,” she whispered. I was so surprised I must have gasped like a fish again. Then my Ada turned and wrapped his arm around me, his hand on Modor's belly, and all three of us curled up to sleep. No, all four of us.


	29. Peace Talks

**Peace Talks**

Elboron, handsome in his first Court dress, sat opposite the dark-eyed Haradric princess. The shy thirteen-year-olds had apparently discovered some means of communicating, for now they were laughing, eyes flashing, hands gesturing. 

“May we be excused, Father? It is a clear night, and we wish to compare the names of the stars, and their stories.” Hand in hand, they slipped out into the garden. 

The stars, and their stories. In years to come, their memories of a single starlit evening might build a bridge of story and song more powerful and enduring than any emissary’s words or gifts.


	30. Charms of Wisdom and Grace

**Charms of Wisdom and Grace**

In the early days I had done all the weaving, of course; the loom set in the corner by the fire. We had to carry it in in pieces, because we had not thought to set the door wide enough. After a time, a family of weavers moved into our community, and I was glad to exchange wool for cloth. I almost miss those days, now.

Faramir would sit next to me on the bench to watch. The first time he asked for a turn I thought he was jesting , but my husband surprised me yet again, telling me of how, wandering the city as a boy, he had discovered the weaver’s street, and spent hours watching those quiet folk. When he found his mother’s loom, abandoned in a storeroom, he taught himself, relaxed by the rhythmic sound. He finished a fine length of damask wool, deep ruby and black, and had it made into a cloak, wrapping his brother in love for his journey. When the halflings told of how Boromir had held them close on Caradhras, saving their lives, I could see the tears glistening.

So when I started to hear the thump of the loom at odd times, I knew what it was; and one night I joined him in the workroom. He was weaving a length of soft blue-green wool; under his breath, he sang the old weaver’s song:

__

_I’ll weave my love like armor, to shield him from all harm_

“They will not let him wear that, you know; he’ll be in the uniform of the citadel cadets.” I smiled to think of our son standing in that long line of earnest young soldiers, his golden hair gleaming like a beacon amidst all those raven-dark heads.

“No, but perhaps just a coverlet? Something light but warm to keep the chill off. I remember how drafty those rooms can be. We can wrap some lavender with it when we send it, for the scent. Lavender clears the mind, he’ll find that helpful, while he’s studying. And rosemary, too, to strengthen the memory….”

__

_Blood and tears to fix the charm_

Not blood and tears; lavender and rosemary. His father’s love, interwoven with the colors and scents of home;charms of wisdom and grace.

***  
 _Triolet: The Weaver's Song_

__When the wind blows from the river, my lord will not feel the cold.  
I’ll weave my love like armor, to shield him from all harm.  
I’ll wrap him in velvet and sable, glorious as kings of old.  
When the wind blows from the river, my lord will not feel the cold.  
Valor, beauty, honor: a thousand tales will be told.  
Dark velvet and black sable, my blood and tears to fix the charm.  
When the wind blows from the river, my lord will not feel the cold.  
I’ll weave my love like armor, to shield him from all harm. 

***  
For the "Cold" challenge at tolkien_weekly, inspired by Boromir's marvelous cloak. A triolet is a poem or stanza of eight lines with a rhyme scheme abaaabab, in which the fourth and seventh lines are the same as the first, and the eighth line is the same as the second. 


	31. Family History

**Family History**

She thought she had cut away that desperate desire for death and glory, the wound seared shut when she vowed to devote herself to growing things, herbs of healing and a garden full of children. 

Now her grandson is on her knee, his piping voice like birdsong. “A story, a story!” 

Who is this stolid matron she sees, reflected in his eyes?

"Shall I tell you how I garbed myself as a man, riding to war with a halfling prince behind me?" 

Barahir's mouth drops. "You...oh!" 

Laughing, she swoops him close. “I was a shieldmaiden, and bore my grandmother’s sword….”


	32. A Fragment of Family History

**A Fragment of Family History**

 

Of all the festivals we celebrated in Ithilien, Midsummer’s Night was the best – I remember as if it were yesterday.

One year Grandmother became a bit tipsy, and sang songs she learned as a girl, listening quiet as a mouse, in the Great Hall at Meduseld. How odd to think of Théodred, Éomer, Boromir the Bold, warriors out of legend, singing such bawdy songs! King Éomer blushed, and Queen Lothíriel smiled, while my grandfather laughed and laughed. 

(I was quite young, of course, and did not realize the songs were naughty until later, when I wrote down what I remembered.)


	33. In Search of History

**In Search of History**

_Tell me_ were Barahir's first words. 

Raised on the bright weavings of family history, the glories of Gondor and Rohan, and the wider world of Arda; his own first writings, childish scrawls, were of history, too. _Once there were Elves. Now they are gone._

Alone he wandered, one hundred and ten days, awestruck at each totem of past, present, and future. When he reached the hidden valley he stopped, touched by its desolate beauty and the whispers swirling around him. In vain he tried to capture the words, but the voices turned to the murmuring of dry leaves. _Gone, gone._


End file.
